Politics Can Be Murder: Every Wife Has a Story (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 9) by Susan Santangelo

Author:Susan Santangelo [Santangelo, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Suspense Publishing
Published: 2020-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Being organized is highly overrated.

Nancy always says that you can tell an awful lot about people by the place they call home. In Donna Trumbull’s case, the monstrosity she called home told Jim and me right away that she was awfully rich and had awfully bad taste. The house was an over-the-top mega McMansion set on what was previously two building lots with two perfectly nice colonial homes. I had a brief wave of sadness for the two houses that had been sacrificed to make room for this combination of Victorian and modern with more turrets and peaks than I had ever seen on a single structure. As if the style wasn’t ugly enough, the structure was painted a garish blue with red shutters and white trim.

I couldn’t look at Jim. I knew what he must be thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. Did Donna Trumbull have her house painted red, white and blue and then decide to run for office to match the colors? Or was it the other way around? I shook my head. The latter was unlikely, since she’d just gotten the idea after the argument between Sister Rose and Frank Bologna at Mary Pat’s memorial service. Unless she kept a house painter on speed dial, nobody could get a house completely painted in just one day.

“I wonder if the inside is decorated with stars and stripes,” Jim said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Behave yourself,” I said as I pressed the doorbell. I almost lost it myself when we were greeted by the first six notes of the “Star Spangled Banner.”

“Interesting door chime,” Jim said.

The front door flew open, revealing Donna Trumbull with a phone glued to her ear. She gestured us inside as she continued to bark orders at the person on the other end of the phone line. “Quite frankly, I don’t care what your problem is, Sid. You figure out how to get the entire shipment of flour delivered to me by tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp or I’m cancelling your contract and using someone else. And not only that, I’ll have my lawyers sue you. Got that?” She paused for a beat, then snapped, “Good. I’m glad you finally understand.” And she ended the call.

I felt sorry for the poor person who was on the receiving end of Donna’s wrath. Witnessing the call reminded me with a jolt that I’d seen an example of her temper before, when she’d yelled at the Fairport Garage owner for taking so long to fix her car. Too bad I hadn’t remembered her temper before I promised to help her run for office and, even worse, roped Jim into her campaign, too.

You’re overreacting, Carol. Give the woman a chance. She’s under a lot of pressure. Every now and then you lose your temper, too.

In less than a millisecond, Donna’s whole manner changed from Cruella de Vil to Mary Poppins. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. She threw her arms around me, giving me a big hug.

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